


Sanctuary

by Echo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caretaking, Comfort, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Gen, Missing Scene, Vulnerable Mycroft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-27
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-28 11:50:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17182439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Echo/pseuds/Echo
Summary: Early on the morning of Boxing Day, Greg is alarmed to find Mycroft Holmes breaking into his flat.He is even more alarmed when he comes to understand what happened on the evening of the day before, and the events that brought Mycroft to this place.A missing scene for His Last Vow.





	1. Chapter 1

Greg Lestrade was no stranger to being woken up at 3am.

He couldn't even really claim that he was a stranger to being woken at 3am on Boxing Day, since that had more or less happened two years ago. The Christmas period was a notoriously busy time for police working serious crimes.

Being woken at 3am on Boxing Day to the sound of his own house being broken into, however, was a new one. Sherlock had broken in a few times, but not for some years now. So, with his phone in one hand (emergency number pre-entered), and a good old fashioned truncheon in the other, he was prepared for just about anything.

Except, perhaps, the sight of Mycroft Holmes, soaking wet, sitting on his sofa staring at the black screen of his television set.

"Mycroft? What the hell?" He said in a hissed stage whisper.

"Detective Inspector," came Mycroft's response, a different kind of quiet. The kind of quiet that existed because it couldn't bear to be spoken any louder.

Greg emptied his hands of the phone and truncheon and came around to the front of the sofa, blinking the remaining sleep out of his eyes. "You're soaked!"

Mycroft tilted his head in consideration. "Why yes, I suppose I am. Couldn't be helped, really. It was raining, and I didn't have my umbrella."

Greg's sleep addled brain fumbled around for something to say in response, before settling on "What the hell are you doing here? "

"I am not entirely certain," Mycroft confessed, appearing mildly surprised by that thought, "I suppose there must be a reason, and yet I seem to have simply... Come here."

Greg crouched down to eye level, noticing Mycroft's wide pupils, and the very slight tremor to his hands. The room was still dark, which could have explained the eyes, but the tremor? The confusion?

"Mycroft, are you sick? Or injured?" Greg pursed his lips, hesitated, then pushed ahead. After all, some things ran in families... "Have you taken any drugs?"

Mycroft looked off into the middle distance for a few seconds before answering. "There were drugs, yes," he mused in a way that made Greg unsure whether he was being addressed directly or whether Mycroft was just talking to himself. "He needed us to be unconscious, because otherwise we would have stopped him. I deduced that he would, of course. Something in the punch. Worn off now though, or should have done."

Greg felt incredibly uneasy. He and Mycroft had known each other for years. They had well understood boundaries established for a great many contingencies. That much was almost a necessity, given that their collaboration had centred around keeping Sherlock safe. And yet, this situation was so far outside of any of those boundaries they might as well be in another continent.

He cautiously put a hand to Mycroft's forehead to check for fever, but found none. He was just cold and wet from the rain outside. He must have been walking for some distance to get this sodden though. And without his traditional umbrella, which was enough to raise alarm bells by itself. Mycroft's life was never so poorly planned as to get stuck in the rain without an umbrella.

"Do you need me to take you to a hospital?" He checked, still unsure. Mycroft shook his head.

"Not after a shot like that. Bullet straight through the temporal lobe. Death was instantaneous. Dropped like a stone. The autopsy isn't until tomorrow. Or today now, I suppose, given we've moved from late to early. Still, nothing to be gained by being there until it's done."

Greg felt a sudden, unstoppable rush of horror well up in his chest. A body, Mycroft showing up at Greg's flat in the middle of the night in this state, and after Christmas Day, a time when emotions ran high and homicide rates ran higher...

He almost didn't want to ask, and yet, "Mycroft, is Sherlock...?"

"Safely in the custody of my people. No more decisions to be made tonight."

The wave of relief at the knowledge that Sherlock was alive was short lived, as the fragments started to come together to form a different, but similarly awful picture.

Sally had always said that one day Sherlock would be the one holding the weapon. Greg had always held onto his belief that Sherlock could be a good man.

Perhaps it had not been so much a belief as a desperate hope.

"Oh Mycroft, I am so sorry," he said, feeling the useless inadequacy of the words.

For all his pomp and circumstance, Greg had long ago realized the truth about Mycroft Holmes. That he was a man who treasured his little brother more than anything. A man who would do anything within his considerable power to bring Sherlock happiness. A man who was utterly and completely vulnerable to the very worst that Sherlock could do. 

It seemed that Sherlock had found a new way to hurt the people who cared about him.

Greg settled himself on the floor in front of the sofa and took Mycroft's hands between his own, trying to still their subtle shaking. The gesture seemed to trigger something in Mycroft though, as suddenly Greg found himself the focus of all one hundred percent of Mycroft's attention.

"I didn't see it coming." He said, the words practically tumbling over themselves in their urgency, "I took the laptop, because I knew he would need it. Normally I wouldn't, far too dangerous, but I was so certain I had seen every possibility. Helicopters on standby. I even drank the punch. I told him, I _told him_ to be careful. And he went, like I knew he would, but there was something I missed. Something we both missed. I never imagined... I never..."

Greg could do nothing but nod, letting Mycroft ramble out whatever horrors were lurking behind those dark eyes, the words tangling and cascading over each other in a tragic parody of the deductions he'd heard both brothers produce dozens of times over. He nodded, and he held those shaking hands between his own, sitting in the dark of Boxing Day morning, and let Mycroft shake himself apart with his words.

And then, finally, mercifully, the words stopped.

Greg allowed the silence to fall over both of them, giving Mycroft a few moments to breathe.

"Okay, Mycroft. It's going to be okay. But I need you to try and focus for just one more moment, okay? I need to know, what do you need from me, right now?"

His voice the kind of gentle he used to talk to frightened children, or victims of assault. It seemed to work though. Mycroft took some seconds to answer, but when he did the word was spoken to quietly that Greg had to strain to hear it.

"Sanctuary."

"Sanctuary?" Greg confirmed, "From what?"

Mycroft's eyes fell shut. He breathed slowly, deliberately, fortifying himself.

"Whenever Sherlock made a mistake, and he did so many times, you would take him in. Unforgivable mistakes, some of them and yet you would show him forgiveness every time. You would show him kindness. You would grant him sanctuary." Mycroft took another breath, this one catching in his throat and causing his whole body to shudder with it. "I have made a most grievous mistake today. Possibly the worst that I have ever made, and I fear Sherlock will pay the price for it. Tomorrow I must attempt to repair the damage, to negotiate for his life, but tonight..."

Greg nodded, a tentative understanding forming. "Tonight you're cold and you're tired, and you want to stay here where it's safe? Sanctuary."

Mycroft gave a slow, single nod, as though even that small gesture cost him more reserves than he had to spare.

Greg nodded more decisively. "Of course. Of course you can stay here Mycroft."

Mycroft exhaled, some complicated form of relief. Greg stood, using his grip on Mycroft's hands to pull him upright. The man was completely pliant, as though every drop of willpower had been drained from him.

Greg put his hand on the small of his back, and guided him towards the bathroom. It'd be good to get him into a shower to warm up, but at the very least they could towel off the drips from his hair.

"Don't worry. You can stay here for as long as you need."


	2. Chapter 2

Surreal didn't even begin to cover it.

Something about this place and time had compelled both of them to eschew the lights, so the two of them made their way through the flat in the dark, navigating by the strips of streetlight shining around the blinds, and the numerous artificial points of light coming from his various appliances and digital clocks. The house was silent, the only interruptions the occasional muffled sound of a late night passing car, and their own movements.

Greg settled Mycroft on the side of the small tub, helping him remove his shoes and socks. Or perhaps, more accurately, removing Mycroft's shoes and socks for him.

"Do you want a hand with these?" He asked, gesturing to the rest of Mycroft's clothing as casually as he could. In the dim lighting it was hard to be certain, but he seemed to be wearing a tweed jacket rather than his more traditional 'bureaucratic' suits. Probably no less expensive, given that it was still Mycroft Holmes wearing it, but slightly less formal than Greg had come to expect. Coming from a day in the country, perhaps? Mycroft just blinked slowly and turned his gaze to the wall. Greg took that as an affirmative, and knelt down.

As a young man, Greg had been no stranger to undressing other men. Enthusiastic mutual undressing, in many cases, although for all the enthusiasm of youth and the fear of accidental discovery, those encounters had never really felt quite as intense as this moment.

With care, Greg removed first the jacket, then the waistcoat. It occurred to Greg then that the only other time he had undressed a man in his flat while experiencing this same kind of quiet intensity, the man in question had been a different Holmes brother. Albeit, one who had been similarly distressed. Sherlock had never coped well with the stresses of withdrawal. He had always needed a guardian to see him through the worst of it. When he had finally rejected his brother's watchful eye outright, it had been Greg who had found himself shouldering that responsibility.

Mycroft wore sleeve garters. The discovery brought a kind of pensive amusement to Greg, even as he gently removed them. They were completely unnecessary, not just for the fact that the world had moved on from the times when one might be judged for overlong shirt sleeves, but also because Mycroft's shirts had clearly been tailored to the exact right length in any case. Purely an historical affectation then.

Greg unbuttoned that perfectly tailored shirt as well, grateful this time to see that Mycroft had recovered the wherewithal to shrug himself out of the thing, even if he still allowed it to fall to the floor.

"Arms up," Greg instructed, fingers gently teasing the waistband of the undershirt up to lift over Mycroft's head. It was a wonder how Mycroft wasn't perpetually overheating, wearing so many layers of clothes all the time. Mycroft obliged, much to Greg's relief, and the undershirt joined its over-shirt companion on the floor.

Mycroft's skin was pale. Were it not for the thousands of tiny, faint freckles covering every inch of his chest, Greg would have compared the colour to porcelain. He had a slim build, with sharp angles everywhere, except for an almost imperceptibly slight curve to his tummy. A sole concession to middle age. Had this body belonged to a man who was less imposing, less terrifying than Mycroft Holmes, Greg would have considered it cute. As it was...

Surreal. Definitely surreal.

"Almost done, sweetheart," Greg said, the diminutive falling from his lips without thinking, "gonna need you to stand up for the next bit though."

Once again Mycroft obliged without argument, even going so far as to place a hand on Greg's shoulder to steady himself. The trousers came off easily enough, with Mycroft very carefully and consciously stepping out of them, leaving him standing in front of Greg in nothing but his pants.

Greg took a moment to consider his options, before deciding to leave Mycroft with that much. He would reserve this small dignity for the man, even if it may not be the most practical of outcomes.

He turned the water in the shower to warm, and was pleased when Mycroft stepped into the flow under his own power.

"Okay, I'm just going to get you a fresh towel and some dry clothes, then I'll be back."

Mycroft was noticeably taller than Greg, which made finding suitable clothing options tricky. Greg eventually settled on a loose fitting pear of tracksuit pants and an oversized tee from the 90s. They were about as far from Mycroft's traditional garb as it was possible to be without actively seeking out some kind of novelty costume, but they were soft and they were warm. And it wasn't like Mycroft was going to be doing much more than sleeping in them anyway.

Greg added a spare towel from the linen cupboard to his bundle, taking the full collection back to the bathroom. He knocked on the door. "Mind if I come in? I've got you a fresh towel and some clothes."

He received no answer, but had not really anticipated one. He creaked the door open a sort way, sliding in sideways.

Mycroft was still in the shower. He had clearly decided against the pants though, the fabric now a soggy pile on the corner of the shower floor. Greg caught a glance of the long, unbroken expanse of skin through the steam, before averting his eyes politely and depositing the small pile on the floor.

"They're just down here, when you're ready. Towel's on top," he said, already slipping back out of the room, "I'm going to see if I can rustle up some soup or hot chocolate or something down in the kitchen."

Greg lost track of how long Mycroft had been in the shower, but by the time he joined Greg in the kitchen, the milk on the stove was approaching temperature. The warm, sweet smell of cooked milk put him in mind of happier times, the less complicated days of his childhood. He hoped it might do the same for Mycroft.

As he had expected, Mycroft looked quite unnatural in Greg's clothes. They hung loosely around his frame, almost threatening to fall right off him occasionally as he moved. But the cold pallor that had been staining Mycroft's skin when he had arrived was now replaced by the soft pink of warmth. And while his eyes were still dark, it was more like the dark of exhaustion than it was of shock and horror.

Greg ladled some of the warm milk over the chocolate flakes in a mug, stirring until they blended into a sweet, light brown. It was a shame he didn't have any marshmallows, he mused, but this would have to do.

With mug in one hand, he joined Mycroft at the entrance to the kitchen, and placed his free hand on the small of Mycroft's back to guide him. His first thought was the living room, but then he realized that the sofa would almost certainly still be wet from where Mycroft had sat earlier. Instead, he directed them to the small spare room where Mycroft was to spend what little of the night was left. He sat Mycroft on the side of the bed, turned on the small bedside lamp, and pushed the mug into his hands.

"Drink, sweetheart. All of it. When you're done, you can sleep."

Mycroft stared at the mug for several seconds before taking a slow, careful sip. A few seconds later, he nodded, and drank again.

Greg left to get his own mug, double checked that the stove was off, then rejoined Mycroft in the spare room. He sat himself on one of the numerous unpacked boxes that had found their semi-permanent home in this space.

They sat together in silence then, taking sips from their mugs. When the mugs ran dry, they placed them on the side table. Still silence prevailed.

Eventually, the clock on the wall caught Greg's eye.

"It's nearly four now, Mycroft. Why don't you try and get some sleep?"

Mycroft closed his eyes, and nodded.

Greg stood, collected the mugs, then turned the lamp off again, returning them both to the silent dark that they had spent most of the past hour in.

He made it as far as the door, when he heard Mycroft speak for the first time since the shower.

"Thank you," he said, so softly it would have gone unheard but for the pervading silence.

"You're welcome, Mycroft. Now go to sleep. We can talk more in the morning, if you like."

By the time morning came, Mycroft Holmes was already gone.


End file.
